


A spot of tea(rs)

by Leu (Karaii)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus and Gellert listen to music and play games and drink tea, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Nurmengard, Starvation, and dance around the melancholy of their failed relationship, implied suicidal intent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karaii/pseuds/Leu
Summary: Imprisoned and stripped of magic, Gellert Grindelwald has control over nothing except his own life. He cannot take it by force -- Nurmengard's wards forbids it -- but he can whittle it away day by day. It is his choice, to preserve his dignity.Albus Dumbledore just doesn't want to let go.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	A spot of tea(rs)

“You’re late,” said a voice from the darkness.

Albus Dumbledore waved his hand and there was light, drawing attention to the sharp contours of Gellert Grindelwald’s wasted face.

“Politicians,” Albus demurred. “My constant blight, and,” he eyed his old friend’s increasingly unkept state, “yours too, I fear.”

Gellert sneered. It was no longer a very handsome look on him. “This is not due to politics,” he insisted. “This is a personal protest.”

“Ah, yes. I remember.” Albus busied himself conjuring up their usual chintz-patterned armchairs: his flowered a hearty purple, and Gellert’s a pale teal. “Would you like some tea?”

“ _Nein.”_ Gellert heaved all one hundred pounds of himself onto his seat, and made a herculean effort not to sound exhausted at the end of it. “What politicians plague you now, Alchen?”

“Oh, the usual suspects.” Albus waved his hand dismissively and, with the same gesture, conjured up a gold-plated gramophone atop an elegant mahogany table. “Music, then, Gellert? If you shall not feed your body, at least permit me to feed your soul.”

The prisoner closed his eyes in what appeared to be resignation. “Wagner,” he finally muttered.

“An apt choice,” Albus said, and the first mellow notes of _Parsifal_ emerged from silence. His father’s namesake sang in deep baritone of a quest for a holy Grail; of an unrivaled Spear that dealt wounds unhealing; of castrated villains and foolish heroes whose virtue and compassion triumphed over vice and violence.

Gellert’s lip curled. “Am I the Klingsor to your Amfortas?” he mocked. “ _Weh’ über mich!_ ”

“I rather thought you my Bunbury,” Albus said lightly.

For a moment Gellert’s brow creased, hunger making him slow, but soon he joined Albus’ leap from Wagner to Wilde and he couldn’t help but laugh, full-bellied and honest. “Now _that_ is apt!” Gellert slouched on the chair dramatically. “What is my illness today, dear Algernon?”

“Consumption,” Albus murmured into his chamomile.

“Apt indeed.” Gellert ran thin fingers over his ribs. “I dropped another stone, I think. Soon, I may finally die.“

Albus sighed, and he seemed all of a sudden much, much older. “What pyrrhic victory do you seek through such manner of protest, old friend? If there is anything I can do–”

“You’ve done enough,” Gellert said shortly, and that silenced Albus quite thoroughly.

For a moment, they both attempted to enjoy _Parsifal_ , but perhaps due to the company, or Albus’ undue distraction, they soon found themselves listening to an aria out of _Tristan und Isolde_. Two lovers brought unto tragic ends by outside forces…

“Typical Albus,” Gellert said, not without fondness. “Predictable and maudlin.”

The aging man smiled ruefully. “I am at that.”

“Have the English asked to make you Minister again?”

“It has come up, here and there.” Albus admitted, toying with his tea cup. “Though I have become rather good at denying myself the pleasure.”

A shot of frustration tore through Gellert. “But why?! Albus–” Rage had always given Gellert the strength to come alive. “How _dare_ you usurp me and then not take my place?!” He kicked the gramophone and Isolde’s swan song cut off abruptly. “How _dare_ you claim the higher moral ground –” he was breathless in his fury, “– and still permit inferior fools to _ruin_ the world? Your stupid – selfish – self-denial helps no one, you old – senile – _Idiot_!”

“Neither does death by starvation,” Albus said coolly. “But you insist on it regardless.”

“One is a matter of my dignity,” Gellert snarled. “The other a matter of global security!”

“The security of the world is no longer your concern,” Albus said mildly.

Gellert’s energy ran out, and he slumped in his chair again, exhausted. He was breathing heavily, light-headed. Months of being denied and denying himself sustenance had whittled him down to bones and shadow. In his darker moments, Albus thought his own soul might look like Gellert’s body did now, shriveled and emaciated through deliberate self-destruction.

He weathered the thought stoically, and waited out Gellert’s embittered silence.

“Play _Siegfried Idyll_ ,” Gellert said, finally, like an apology.

Albus complied, repairing the gramophone with a flick of his finger. He had never and would never bring the Elder Wand into Nurmengard, but Albus did not need a wand to perform what he was a Master of.

“Chess?” Albus offered his own olive branch. “I open pawn to E4.”

“Pawn to E5,” Gellert replied promptly.

“Knight to F3,” Albus countered immediately.

Gellert met his eyes, and had to smile. “Pawn to D6.”

They played 1858′s Paris Opera game from memory, delighting simply in being so flawlessly in sync, throwing away pawns, knights, rooks, and towers in quick succession until that final, beautiful checkmate.

“Ah,” Gellert sighed, pleased. “That is a good game.”

“Of the best,” Albus agreed, smiling. “Another?”

“ _Nein_. Let’s play Go,” Gellert said. “But conjure up a board this time. 19 by 19 is too much, even for my head.”

Albus hummed along to _Siegfried Idyll_ as he and Gellert placed stones in an easy back-and-forth, encircling each other’s camps, strangling each other’s strategies, and slowly, slowly filling up the board.

“Oh my,” Albus paused suddenly, and leaned in. “That was clever.”

“ _Danke_ ,” Gellert said proudly. “Do you resign?”

“Hm,” Albus’s eyes scanned the board swiftly, and, after seven seconds, relaxed. He placed another stone. “Not yet, I think.”

“Wait,” Gellert squinted. “Are you–?”

Albus smiled.

They sped up, then, placing stone after stone, racing to the edge, and Gellert grew more and more frustrated.

“I had you,” he said, even as he continued to struggle in vain. “I had you!”

“You almost did,” Albus agreed. “But we can keep going like this, as long as you like.” A part of him didn’t want this to end, and regretted not choosing a lengthier route to victory. The other part was dutifully counting down the minutes before he had to go.

“No, that’s ok. I can see where this ends.” Gellert sighed. "I resign.” It had taken only 190 moves. Pitiful.

“You almost had me,” Albus insisted.

“Almost,” Gellert agreed. “But the ends are all that matter, Alchen. And I have lost. Let me lose with grace.”

Albus did not look like a winner, then. He looked like a very tired old man. “Can I truly not tempt you to a spot of tea, at least? Before I go.”

“Transfigure it from your tears,” Gellert said, with a mocking smile. “Maybe that will be enough to sustain me for a little while longer.”

Albus looked at him through wet lashes. “There’s a thought,” he said, with a crooked smile. “They are composed partly of sugar. If I Transfigure from that…”

It did not surprise Gellert that Albus took it as a challenge. He watched in mild fascination as Albus casually sublimated the Fifth Exemption to Gamp’s Law, using his own chemical sadness and grief to produce a perfectly serviceable cup of Earl Grey.

“Only you, _Schatz_ ,” Gellert said, fondly. “Fine. I accept your sacrifice play. Give it here, old man. I will drink it.”

Albus smiled, and handed it over. Their hands touched – Gellert’s were cold, but Albus could faintly feel his pulse. Gellert took the cup, raised it and swallowed – once, twice, and then three – Albus savoured the movement of his throat, the eagerness of a parched man given water. He made sure the tea kept flowing. There was plenty to Transfigure it from – the wetness of his eyes, of his tongue; the sugar in his blood; the memory of the perfect taste, now embedded to the rim of the cup.

After a few seconds Gellert made a face, and finally lowered the cup.

“Not to your liking?” Albus asked, his now dry mouth tasting strongly of iron and not much else.

“Too damn sweet,” Gellert grouched. “I don’t have many taste buds left, but the ones I do have are having a stroke.”

“It will sustain you,” Albus promised. His lifeblood was in its very essence, after all. “And it shall always be full, so long as I am alive.”

Gellert startled. “Wait–did you use blood magic?”

“Of a kind,” Albus admitted wryly.

“Dark,” Gellert said, eyeing him carefully. “What will your politicians say?”

“You need not worry about them,” Albus said and stood, joints popping. “Ah, well. I’m afraid I must be going, old friend.”

Gellert looked almost forlorn, but quickly mastered himself, smiling with all twenty of his remaining teeth. “Off you go, then,” he said. “Here I’ll stay.”

“Until next time?” Albus asked, inscribing the blue of Gellert’s eyes into his memory. 

“Until then,” Gellert said, like a promise.

It was enough. It had to be.

Albus nodded, and disappeared with a soft _crack_! In his wake, Gellert felt the rush of Nurmengard’s magic-suppressing wards slam down once more. His ears popped and his legs gave out on him. The light disappeared. The conjured armchairs and gramophone were gone. It felt profoundly cold, except–

Except there was a soft heat radiating from what Gellert knew was Albus’ Transfigured teacup, still filled to the near-brim with Albus’ atrociously sweet Earl Grey. Gellert cradled it against his thin ribs, a source of warmth. It somehow did not spill.


End file.
